


Coarse Grind (Last Drop Timestamp)

by HidetheSilverware (alexa_dean)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coffeeshop AU, Gratuitous Smut, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Morning Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Possessive Behavior, Sharing Clothes, Smut, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexa_dean/pseuds/HidetheSilverware
Summary: Lestat wants more of this: Louis in Lestat's shirts and little else . . .Smutty timestamp forSignature Blend AU. Vampire Chronicles Secret Gift Exchange for my darling Burnadette_dpdl.
Relationships: Armand/Daniel Molloy, Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac, background Nicolas de Lenfent/Lestat de Lioncourt
Comments: 15
Kudos: 83





	Coarse Grind (Last Drop Timestamp)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rebness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/gifts), [Burnadette_dpdl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Signature Blend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110764) by [Burnadette_dpdl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/pseuds/Burnadette_dpdl), [Rebness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness). 
  * Inspired by [The Last Drop: The Lost Chapters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575780) by [Burnadette_dpdl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/pseuds/Burnadette_dpdl), [Rebness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness). 



> **  
>  [The Last Drop: The Missing Chapters, Ch. 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575780/chapters/36906378#workskin)   
>  **

The first time is completely unintentional. Lestat picks a random garment from the mountain of various items resting on what should have been a large, winged-backed chair of butter-soft leather, now his lover's unofficial weekend locker, and tugs it on (although tugging might have been an understatement). Instantly, the threads creak over his chest. The circulation in his biceps slow. Dawn kisses cool over the lower half of his abdomen. Lestat attempts to free himself but stops short. Something gave where one sleeve joined the fabric of the torso. The cotton would have split down the middle of his back, had he the need to bend over. Fortunately, he'd worked his way from the bottom up, slippers, clean underwear, shirt.  
  
As it stands, Lestat will suffer the indignity of leaving said shirt on his person, will make the most of waiting for Louis to rise for the day and help Lestat out of it. Preferably with his teeth. Meanwhile, Lestat will fix his lover's breakfast. The act is less about altruism than it is an attempt to avoid the unanchored feeling waking alone gives him, which is strangely worse when Lestat knows he went to bed with someone the night before. To be fair, Lestat had no inkling he'd grow so used to Louis as quickly as he has having gone to bed a free man and arisen a heartsick prisoner to the manifestation of his darkest desires.  
  
To sidestep the issue, Lestat makes a point of rising before Louis does as a practical strategy. Lestat amuses himself with thoughts of trading in boyfriend brownie points for sexual favors (unlikely). Lestat is intimately aware of his own predisposition toward touchy-feely-ness and has to actively keep his hands and other miscellaneous extremities within the scope of his own personal bubble when in the company of his lover. Louis is naturally diffident. So much so, that his reserve is often mistaken for coldness when it isn't a source for suspicion. Louis reveals so little of himself, would rather argue philosophy and politics or discuss the contents of his latest read than spill a drop of personal history. Lestat knows better than to take it to heart. After all, at the end of the day, it's Lestat he's fucking. No one else.  
  
Meanwhile, Lestat will make the most of his time by ensuring Louis starts his day off with a proper meal. How Louis managed to survive on shit food is beyond Lestat's comprehension. The human body needs more than coffee and pastries. Yet, Louis thrives.  
  
Hopped up on caffeine and sugar, Louis dementedly balances his books, cleans, stocks the cafe, takes, and shoots off orders forty-hours a week. Louis' long-fingered grace and cool, dark gaze working over customers like a bright white chill on the proverbial spine. On the rare occasions Louis chooses to lunch with Lestat, he will thieve his way delicately through the unhealthier contents of Lestat's one weakly cheat meal, either oblivious or indifferent to Lestat guiltily, covetously starving for him.  
  
Morning smells suffuse the apartment with the holy glow of Lestat's good intentions. Coffee steeps in its press. Dough warms on the pan. The scent of maple syrup rises heady and sweet. Lestat's pancakes, however, leave plenty to be desired. At least, visually, they do. Lestat frowns. Stuffs them in the warmer anyway, hopes the recipe will make up for the lack of uniformity in shape and size.  
  
As he finishes setting the table for two, Lestat hears Louis trip over something in the bedroom. The result is an emphatic twelve-letter word. Lestat chuckles softly, pleased that Louis stayed the night, even as cantankerous as he is in the morning. Whatever it is, Lestat nurses in the fluctuating chambers of his stupid heart has brought Lestat to his knees: muzzling him with excruciating insecurity, or driving him face-first into another embarrassing display of jealousy with enough oddly specific vindication that it rings of a delayed reaction to an ex-lover's sins. Most times, Lestat loses sleep, awakening at the ass-crack of dawn to feel around for the traces of heat left behind by Louis' body.  
  
Lestat is a goner; he knows the symptoms of this particular infection intimately. This is love without fail-safes, life with no emergency brake. And Lestat is anxious he will screw it up.  
  
Outwardly, Louis is a harmless young man. He should be less intimidating than Lestat; Lestat, who is well-trained and lethal in a show of force. But these are unspoken things that cannot be guessed at, most of the time. However, Lestat is the exception, he has high caliber body mass to stress the point. Yet it means nothing. Because Louis can do more with less, perhaps because of, or in spite of his fragile greyhound bone structure: arms locked over his chest, center of balance rolling from slim hip to slim hip, brilliant eyes set to deliver snake-bite poison with the slightest hint of displeasure. The real danger was in the mouth, both for its off-putting sensuality as the biting play of words set to disarm. Or maim.  
  
Too much, Lestat ponders Louis' contradictions, convinced that if he were to trace the pattern, learn it, he'd spring free of the trap-- the death of Lestat's bachelorhood as he knows it. The last time Lestat felt this strongly about anyone was at the tender age of sixteen, and Nicolas de L'Enfent was all he knew of love. It did not go out in a blaze like a Roman candle. Instead, it outlived all expectations, pathetically clinging to Lestat well past its usefulness, like an old, threadbare tee in a windstorm. Toward its end, puppy love-cum-illicit affair became a competition of one-upmanship Lestat had no stakes in. Like everything else with Nicki, Lestat indulged his whims, never questioning why or if he should.  
  
By Lestat's twenty-first birthday, he had reached his fill of resentment and loneliness. And honestly, he couldn't claim what he'd shared with Nicki had been a proper romantic relationship anyway. In case of point: Lestat and Nicki spent more time sleeping with other people than with each other.  
  
Lestat left, quietly, never once looking back to see.  
  
Louis is worlds apart from Lestat's first blunder. Better, Lestat thinks. There's a secret softness to Louis missing in Lestat's previous lovers -- an air of naiveté -- or the sexier oblivious cousin thereof. No matter how often or how hard Lestat tries, he can't seem to fuck Louis out of his system. It intensifies his desire, compounds it. Lestat's tolerance increasing with every hit, requiring more and more of Louis' time and energy for Lestat to achieve that perfect, dazzling high.  
  
Louis' body is a marvel of honesty, its language precise, its structure economical, elongated, elegant, its demeanor terrifying for its control, born from the conflict between an utter disregard of one's pleasure pitted against a naturally self-conscious disposition. A compelling combination of faults Lestat aches merely to remember it. Jacking off has never been more dissatisfying to Lestat, second only to the resulting despair fucking another nameless lover would be. As far as Lestat is concerned, Louis has ruined him for all others. Forever.  
  
Never has love taken on a nightmarish quality of hyper-lucidity. Lestat's yearning quiets only between the thighs of his beloved, eased away by the deep flush on the lofty cheeks, that fluttering look-away, unsure and unsubtle as the totemic shape of Louis' dick in the messy tenderness of Lestat's fist. Undeniably hard for Lestat. The bottom lip will drag between Louis' even teeth, the flesh turning from pink to white to wine-red in response to Lestat's baser requests. Introspective desire, wobbly-kneed, shuffles to the fore as a supplicant for Lestat to receive or dismiss as if Lestat would or could deny Louis anything as if Lestat weren't the one worshipping at his altar. And around them, the bleachy scent of spent lust deepened to the fust of marathon sex. And Louis of the restless limbs would climb the muscles of Lestat's back, his shoulders. His hands will gather Lestat closer, deeper, tighter with precious new teases and timid tugs on the soft, fine hair at the nape of Lestat's neck as Lestat makes good of milking Louis of a week's worth of semen with a generous mouth.  
  
Weak and overspent, Louis will do little to rebuff Lestat as he arranges Louis after; lifts and spreads his lover's mile-long legs, miles-higher, and further apart. Lestat racks up travel mileage claiming the tourist trap for his own. There, between two knuckles splitting the delicate rim, Lestat will spill Louis' seed for slick. Working it in where Louis is pretty and pink and devastating, a schemed-at pace to race past Louis' natural aversion to messy fluids. Lestat's experienced fingers crushing Louis' distaste, replacing it with great, hiccupping sobs of pleasure. Transforming sprint-to-finish to leisurely stroll. Stretch and depth deviating in unpredictable sequence until Louis, quiet and conquered, is racked by unspoken entreaties for relief.  
  
The delirious bloom of need like a shadow over the highest points of Louis' face, color unseen in the dark, only remembered; felt in the heat and heave of Louis' narrow, sinuous form under Lestat's. Louis' fitful fingers traveling to clutch white sheets, scratching and rustling, toes-a-curled, and heels dug. His gorgeous raspy breathing in Lestat's ear. An agonal pleasure-heavy sucking, followed by the shunted exhale of impact.  
  
There, under Lestat's raw, swollen lips, Louis' throat will softly rumble 'round a closed-mouth moan. In sight of his many limitations, Lestat will unloose his meaner instincts, fucking Louis senseless like he'd meant to from the very outset with Louis hissing and kicking and scuttling from the overstimulation, yet carrying Lestat through it with a pained and self-contradictory: "Don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop. I want to get you there."  
  
Lestat would be lying if he said it didn't do something for him to know he's Louis' first male lover. That in the event another man might find his place in Louis' bed, no man would ever be as privileged, or as significant, or as permanent in memory as Lestat.  
  
Sex between them is incredible because it isn't two blind animals rutting, or rather it's not solely that. It's that with Louis, Lestat has reached an awakening. Lestat's dissatisfied, self-serving life expanded before him in all directions on a flat plane, ignorant of the elusive soul residing in the third dimension. It wasn't difficult to travel there with Louis. A chaste kiss, a hand on Lestat's wrist, a well-timed Mona Lisa smile will teleport Lestat instantly to cloud nine. And, if not for the fact that every encounter was under cover of darkness or behind closed doors, like a dirty secret, Lestat would call his life perfect.  
  
Lestat would never dream of pressuring Louis to change his habits. Visible shows of affection were not natural to him. Louis worked at it. A kiss here, a shoulder squeeze there, a cupped cheek in public meant more for the effort Louis made against his own interests. Louis' desire -- for all its subtlety -- is both silent and magnificent, like a sea of wildflowers following the arc of the sun in the sky. Lestat has no interest in becoming to Louis what Nicki had, in time, become to Lestat. Chronic resentment had sucked the marrow from the bones of nostalgia.  
  
"I was looking all over for that," Louis says, coming into view, a waify apparition in the doorway to Lestat's bedroom.  
  
Bright white below-the-ankle socks, Lestat's button-up Oxford, the shirttails scantily clad Louis' groin. Lestat imagines the look from behind, the out-swell of buttocks, the smooth expanse of lean thighs. The billowing fabric is both too much for Lestat to handle and not enough for decency's sake, proving Louis can be as sexually provocative in shapeless rags as he is without them. And Lestat wants more of this: Louis in Lestat's shirts and little else. Imagines feeling Louis' naked body through the coarse cotton. Lestat swallows loudly. The narrative cogwheel in his head stunned into disengaging. Stuck on all the filthy things he's done to Louis and will do.  
  
It's a small consolation that Louis isn't faring any better than Lestat is. Caught staring by Lestat, Louis immediately cuts his eyes away. Reclusive lower lip hidden away behind closed teeth, one hand squeezes the opposite elbow uncertainly, pensive conflict roots Louis in place. Shy, Louis has gone tight-jawed and slant-eyed, blushing ember-bright. He looks hot to touch, forged in a kiln of fever dreams. The ache in Lestat's groin rivals the brutality of the ache in his chest. He wants both to protect Louis and fuck him mercilessly.  
  
"Do you like it?" Lestat smiles, feigns whimsical interest, and pirouettes for Louis. "Jesse mentioned midriffs are in this season." He looks down at his own overachieving eight-pack and bi-iliac grooves, his nipples erect under Louis' shirt. "This is either a layer of fat or bloat." When pinching his skin proves unsuccessful, Lestat pats his belly instead as if to bemoan its nothingness. "What do you make of it, Louis? Should I diet?"  
  
Oh, Lestat knows what he looks like. His body is indeed such that earns him attention. But it's the accomplishment of having shaped it from the inside out that gives it real value to Lestat, whereas Lestat's face and height happened to be the luck of the draw, entirely out of his hands.  
  
Propositioned for modeling and porn alike, Lestat's determined commitment to his own health was and is a blessing as far as Lestat sees it. For Nicki, it was a curse he would not overlook, angry to share the spotlight with Lestat. Expecting Lestat to have remained the _twinkiest_ of noodly twinks for the rest of their days. Lestat had grown up and was every bit Achilles in his prime, every gesture made indecent by the bulging clarity of muscle tone. And Nicki resented being left behind, unable to diminish Lestat's shine. Lestat worked his fucking ass off to get where he envisioned himself to be. Of course, Lestat would wallow in gushing compliments, Nicki or no.  
  
No one ever kicked Nicki out of bed either, and maybe that was the problem, for Nicki wore his ingratitude like armor. Nicki never turned anyone down. Made it a thing to dismiss Lestat's affections publicly for the favor of a new flame. That stopped the moment Nicki's suitors flocked to Lestat, used Nicki to get to Lestat. It poisoned what remained of their friendship. Nicki's shortcomings were his own, not Lestat's, yet Nicki punished Lestat for it. It wasn't Lestat's fault, Nicki couldn't bother to carry his own sheet music if he could help it. And if Nicki insisted Lestat's pectorals were obscenely overdeveloped, as was the size of Lestat's dick, there were ten more persons in line ready to decry the undue criticism. More than once, Nicki made a point to cover Lestat if Lestat ever decided to remove his shirt on a Summer day, accusing Lestat of showboating.  
  
From Louis, there is only ever wide-eyed wonder, and startled delight in Lestat's feats of strength, a greater abandon as Lestat fucks him hard against a wall and without one, upright and perilously counter-levered. Lestat's two large hands lifting Louis by the buttocks: Louis arms a ring around Lestat's neck, and his legs hitched high on Lestat's waist. Soft but violent sounds would escape Louis' mouth like delicate coughs from the force of Lestat's thrusts, the floss of his hair slipping into Lestat's mouth.  
  
After, starfish-sprawled on the floor next to Lestat's enormous bed (because it made too much noise when Lestat felt exceptionally acrobatic), too fucked out to move, Louis would think and not say, _"If you were to tell a younger me that it would take a man to rock my world, I would have laughed in your face."_ But Louis didn't have to say anything. He spoke it in each unprompted kiss, each slow caress.  
  
"A kiss for my effort?" Lestat asks when Louis moves no closer to him, wanting nothing more than to touch Louis' whole body with mouth, hands, cock.  
  
"Alright," Louis says, not looking up, still hovering in the doorway, hesitant. Beardless and long-limbed, nearly naked, Louis has the look of a teenager grown too tall too quickly, skin stretched snare-drum taut over lean muscle, incisive lines and prominent blood vessels clearly visible. With cautious, light-footed grace, that of a feral cat coy with hunger, Louis meets Lestat on the tile in the kitchen. The only thing worth a hot damn in the entire over-priced apartment, in Lestat's aimless, self-serving life.  
  
Then, Louis consecrates Lestat's cheek with a gentle, well-planted kiss, marked by the aura of antiquated sophistication that pervades Louis' every gesture.  
  
"Thank you," Louis says, voice husky from disuse. "Will you eat with me? You know I can’t finish this alone."  
  
"Of course," Lestat says, noting Louis' distant gaze, the long lick of neck in context of the perfectly balanced posture, like that of a professional dancer, distracts.  
  
Lestat had been more surprised to find an absence of references to Julliard than he might've been had his suspicions been confirmed. It nagged Lestat that Louis was hush-mouthed about everything. The second time they slept together, Lestat broke etiquette and asked point-blank if Louis had ever danced as a vocation, to which Louis evasively answered with, " _never professionally_ ," and proceeded to suck the soul out of Lestat's dick, a manipulative move Lestat saw only in hindsight. Even now, Lestat is painfully mindful of the psychic gulf separating him from Louis.  
  
As close as Louis is, Lestat can feel the heat of Louis' body, and he erupts in gooseflesh all over his bared skin at the proximity, shivering too with a jolt of adrenaline, but wary and weary of secrets.  
  
"A kiss on the mouth?" Lestat asks, his tone taking on a profundity of meaning -- of distilled longing. The inherited despair assumed from rejection. Lestat wants, wants so much more, but more than that, he wants Louis to want it too.  
  
Surprisingly Louis warms to the resonance of Lestat's voice, touches Lestat's breast. Eyes slit into green almonds. He looks directly over the sleek sofa, a chrome and leather affair devoid of pillow and comfort, to the entrance of the apartment, and then the door to the second bedroom as if expecting Armand to leap up from the depths of hell to catch them compromised on the six-by-two feet of prime peninsular granite countertop separating the kitchen from the living area.  
  
Lestat is ready, having taken an unconscious step forward at the same moment, Louis does. Their mouths collide. Two magnets on the same draw. Lestat doesn’t expect Louis to open for his tongue, doesn't expect him to allow Lestat to roam his hands freely over his body. Lestat expects anything but instant capitulation. Louis' indomitable will mysteriously subverted.  
  
But, Lestat is not about to look into the mouth of the proverbial gift horse. Lestat's hands cradle the haughty length of Louis' neck. His fingers tangle in the lustrous black hair as he deepens the kiss. Lips push Louis' lips further apart, tongue sweeping flat, contoured to the dimensions available within. Lestat turns their bodies, backs Louis straight up against the countertop. His lover's pulse races under Lestat's thumbs -- anticipation, embarrassment, pleasure.  
  
Louis makes a broken off sound as Lestat drops his hands to squeeze the subtle curve of Louis' chest, rolls his thumbs over the stiff nipples before pinching them. Breaking the kiss, struggling to catch his breath, Lestat asks: "Are you alright?" Lestat's cock tents his boxers obscenely, dampening the blue silk black with his desire. Oh, he wants so very bad.  
  
Pretty head at an angle, Louis' teeth flash bright white. The green of his eyes slivered to a narrow ring like a lifesaver, pupils enormous pools of starless dark. "Why wouldn't I be?"  
  
"I can name a few things, my enthusiasm for one. I lose control and take things too far. Forget how intimidating I can be," Lestat says, and holds Louis' narrow-palmed hands in his own square ones as though considering them. "I wish I'd taken my time with you. At the very least, I wish I'd been sober. But I was stupid and afraid you would change your mind about me and remember that--" Lestat pauses, smirk falling short of his eyes, continues: "-- that you were still hot for chicks and not dicks." It definitely rung funnier in his head. Once out, however, it was far from the light-hearted banter he's going for. "It should have been special, and it wasn't. I rushed us through it. Your first time should have been special."  
  
"Why should that have changed anything?" Louis asks. A well of concern forms over his left eyebrow. "Don't tell me you have a purity kink." His expression dissolves into something unreadable, a mask weathered by exposure, no lines, no furrows, only that uncanny blankness, that harrowing, ship-launching beauty. Again, Lestat humbles before its symmetry: the rounded cheekbones and the slender jaw bridged together by shadow, the lush, disapproving mouth as yielding and full-bodied as the rest of Louis is not.  
  
" _Pas du tout_ ," Lestat continues, rueful and introspective. Diverts his eyes and links hands with Louis, runs his thumbs over Louis' knuckles, inspects the tapered fingertips to appear unbothered. "I wish I'd taken my time, that's it. I cheated us both, I think."  
  
"I'd rather believe you would have treated me the same either way," Louis responds somewhat humorless, warming not at all.  
  
" _Touche_ ," Lestat says, brings Louis' hands to his grinning mouth, presses the knuckles against his lips, lingering. The old hunger scratching at the door of Lestat's loins, returning to beg for scraps. There was not near enough bare skin for touching, sky-high legs notwithstanding. "Mmmmm . . . What would you say if I tell you I want you, right now?"  
  
_"Here?"_ Louis asks, startled. Blood rises to his cheeks, misty pink at first, then cherry-apricot. "In the kitchen?" He pulls his hands away, assuming a somewhat defensive pose, crossed arms, elbows out, thin shoulders squaring off, the whole of his form expressing angular projections Lestat would gladly cut himself to ribbons for.  
  
Lestat makes a soft, heated sound of approval. "Mojo isn't here to judge us," he teases. He'd asked Armand to take Mojo along with him to Louis' place as a favor, Daniel being less reserved than Louis, less inclined to use Mojo's company to deflect any sexual advances made by Armand.  
  
Arms relaxing, extending, Louis shrugs, then grips the beveled edge of the quartz countertop. His large eyes fix somewhere to the left of Lestat's feet. Underneath the skin below Louis' ear, Lestat can see the quickening throb of his pulse. Lestat wants to kiss it.  
  
"Can I see?" Lestat asks, feeling like he let the silence go on for too long. He feels deliciously sleazy asking but wants more than anything to see his handiwork in the bright light of day, to store the memory for later on. He expects Louis' knee-jerk evasion, but Louis is full of surprises today.  
  
"See what?" So precious, his Louis.  
  
_"Ton cul."_  
  
Louis swallows -- mouth moving but not speaking -- and pales everywhere he isn't blushing. Something fleeting and indecipherable snags across Louis' face, shuttered away almost immediately as his lips press tightly together. Lestat tries not to dwell on what it could mean. If Louis could disappear, he would, that much Lestat can see for himself.  
  
Lestat almost says, _forget it_ , but he waits for Louis' admonishment of him, the _"crève la gueule ouverte!"_ As is Louis' habit, which isn't at all sexy coming from anyone other than Louis. But when Louis says it, Lestat would, totally, resoundingly die with his mouth open for him. Would be more than willing to gargle Louis' balls every morning until forever. Strangely, Louis doesn't say anything. Not ' _no_ ' and not ' _yes_.'  
  
Instead, miracle of miracles, Louis answers with a gesture, the physical embodiment of " _ouai_ ," and shyly presents his back to Lestat's baffled amazement. Shoulders rise to buttress spread-eagled hands on the kitchen counter. His head lolls forward and down, black hair curtaining off his face. Ever so slightly, Louis' feet slide apart for Lestat. It's unprecedented, Louis' strength bowing to the fulfillment of Lestat's desire, and it fills Lestat with a racking tenderness.  
  
Unintentionally, Lestat stretches the moment longer than any interval of inspection demands. The sight of his lover choosing to give him this moves Lestat with gratitude. No one emotion stood apart from any other: the violence of lust, the sweetness of love, the eagerness to mark and claim, the instinct to protect. It's all there. And Lestat is bound hand and foot to all of it, catastrophically helpless.  
  
With one hand raised between Louis' flexing scapulae, Lestat scrutinizes him. Warmth spreads under his ribs. Heat lightning flares in the pit of his stomach. Everything about Louis' body speaks of engineered precision, one centimeter more or one centimeter less would upset the its harmony.  
  
His hands crush the tented fabric against the structure of Louis' body to reacquaint themselves with the wiry tension of Louis' shoulders, recognizing the dimensions of the upper back through the cloth; feels it funnel to a tight wisp of a waist. Lestat marvels, studying the cotton threads of briefs, warp, and weft stretched thin over the gravity-defying buttocks. The nape of the neck bare like an offering to Lestat's teeth.  
  
Lestat pinches himself. Not a dream, then. Lestat is present, in bare feet and boxers and Louis' cheeky, ill-fitting tee reading: ' _due to extenuating circumstances, I'm awake_.' And Louis is taking direction from him. If Louis flails at all, he does so in silence as Lestat lifts the shirttails, pulls the waistband of Louis' briefs, and keeps pulling, down. Down until the elastic holds firm underneath the rounds of his ass. Shivers skitter up and down Lestat's spine as he goes to his knees, right there on the kitchen floor, for Louis, spreads Louis' cheeks apart and hears Louis exhale through clenched teeth, his tension poorly concealed but checked.  
  
To be expected, Louis' skin is reddened but unhurt. The deceptively small indentation hardly more than a pink memory of bliss. Lestat pushes a little, watching it give and soften around his fingertip, tries for deeper and gets a hiss and a tremble for his effort, but no forbiddance. It's all Lestat needs to know. He won't fuck Louis now. He's not a cruel person, and after a few months dating, he's come to realize Louis habitually denies all physical discomforts. Lestat intends to thoroughly enjoy himself, nonetheless.  
  
"We'll try something different," Lestat says, and rises to his feet. He slips into place behind Louis, presses his dick snug in the cleft between his cheeks. Just like that, ruts into him, feeling Louis through the silk covering his length. What can Lestat say about the fit of it? How it feels like nothing, except intentional, an accommodation which speaks of grander schemes beyond chaos and coincidence. The vulgar equivalent of an animal moving into the cradle of his master's hand starved for touch, wordless and grateful, and calculated, and deliciously hot.  
  
Lestat snaps the waistband behind Louis' peach-perfect scrotum and unclothes Louis' sex. Not yet erect, but getting there. Lestat tries to fist both cock and balls, cups and strokes them in unison, but Louis was already too full, too much. Lestat disregards everything, save Louis' cock emerging from its sheath. The shape of the crown under his slick fingers, wet with Louis' desire, squeezing and stroking it. Its hood shortening with every tug of Lestat's hand until it rose wet and bare.  
  
Lestat groans and thrusts impotently against the wet silk, the wet silk against Louis. Lestat has been leaking for a while now, the cloth insubstantial with moisture, furiously riding parallel to the piqued declivity he can now picture precisely as he'd seen it, as Louis had allowed him to see. So very naked, vulnerable, a ringlet of marriage vows, and all of it for Lestat: to fuck, to kiss, to finger, to marvel at. Untouched, unowned, unridden by anyone save Lestat.  
  
Lestat bites his way across Louis' shoulders, leaves damp impressions on cotton in the shape of his own mouth. Louis smelling of Lestat gets Lestat harder and hotter. Left hand curled over Louis' hip, Lestat pulls Louis in tighter into the curve of his pelvis. Louis' breathing: quick and ragged and too loud in his ears. If they'd been in Lestat's bed, the headboard would knock against the wall. Instead, he's brought Louis to his elbows for purchase, hair swaying from Lestat hitching and shoving from behind.  
  
The movement of his squeezing hand on Louis' cock is savage enough that Lestat feels the skintight heartbeat in his palm. There's a fleeting concern, but it's overshadowed by lust as huge and aggrieved as Louis' eyes would be if he would only look back at Lestat. He licks the downy, damp hairs below Louis' hairline, feels little jerks of muscle expand with every breath Louis takes as Lestat seizes Louis' waist with a grappling arm. He kisses Louis' skin, not at all reverent but with desecrating hunger. Louis tastes of longing satisfied, of the liquor of victory, of Lestat's chronic addiction to his body.  
  
Closing his eyes, Lestat imagines the martial-red heat of muscle he's penetrated time and again. Pushes hard enough to expose the tip of his own dick to the air, waistband left behind. Letting go, he looks down, shirt fabric fortuitously gathered in the sway of Louis' back, and preoccupies himself with the reality of his dick sandwiched between Louis' buttocks, riding the cleft, the picture of his own abdomen flexing and relaxing, every muscle in hard light against the gorgeous soft-focus of Louis' skin. Shit, Lestat could do this for days.  
  
"If you could only see what I see," he says to Louis in a hushed groaning voice. "You're perfect. And _mine_."  
  
Louis shifts, makes himself ever accessible and eager. Even so, lowered and braced on his forearms, Louis struggles to push back against Lestat's need. Clear fluid smears the tip of Lestat's cock, gathers in the divide, slippery and warm. With every fiber of his being, Louis pleads for release. Lestat reads it in the strain of his muscles, in the invisible, silent avalanche of words writ in Louis' stubborn posture. There's a sticky thread of precome connecting Lestat's cock to the swell of Louis' ass, slim body wretched and squirming as Lestat snaps his hips forward.  
  
Then, in a breathy whisper, as though giving up the ghost, Louis says: " _Puis me baiser_." Just as the head of Lestat's cock kisses the small aperture to Louis' body, the front door to the apartment opens, and Lestat shoots come in ropes up Louis' back, with a bitten-off shout.  
  
"That settles it then," says Daniel from over Armand's shoulder, the two of them nailed in place, two sets of prying eyes, three wagging tongues. Mojo, on his leash, barks, demanding freedom. 

"Mystery solved."

From Armand: "There's no way Lestat isn't the bottom."

"The proof of the pudding is in the tasting."

"I'm surprised you know how to say it correctly."

"You forget who my roommate is."

The kitchen bar did afford some protection and privacy against their unblinking audience, but alas, Louis found it insufficient, wriggling, angrily. Louis might've made a swift exit if Lestat had not pinned him against the stone countertop. So utterly dazed was Lestat, so overcome with the final echoes of ecstasy, he remained frozen in place. 

Beneath him, prostrate, outraged, and abominably desirable, Lestat's diffident darling threw barbs, " _Putain!_ Get off!"  
  
"I think he did," Armand answers slyly from the doorway as diaphanous in his own vertically-challenged way as Louis, but raffish and auburn.  
  
"Oh, God," Louis says, and kicks Lestat so hard Lestat's back slams into the stainless steel refrigerator.  
  
"Ow, fuck," Lestat says, then to Armand, "You should have called first," and tucks himself back into his boxers while Louis, furious and embarrassed to the max, slams Lestat's bedroom door shut, rattling all the glass in the apartment.  
  
"Weren't you the one complaining last week how you missed before-breakfast sex?" Armand, the insufferable imp reminds him.  
  
In a wink, Lestat's door opens, "You talk about us to _Armand_?!" Louis' fury is palpable.  
  
Stupidly, Lestat says, "I didn't use any names!" and narrowly misses the shoe thrown his way.  
  
_"Imbecile!"_  
  
"You break it, you buy it!" Armand yells at Louis.  
  
"These pancakes are great," Daniel says from the breakfast table.  
  
"Those were for Louis!" Lestat shouts.  
  
"Not anymore," Daniel mumbles around his mouthful of pancake, eyeing Lestat's bare stomach thoughtfully. "Nice shirt, by the way."  
  
"It's not mine," then, pitched low, directly at Armand: "One more word out of you and I will murder you," Lestat says. "I mean it."  
  
Armand smiling and narrow-eyed, says, "Louis, how many times have I told you not to trust a motherfucker?"  
  
"Rot in hell!"

"Don't _fuck_ in my kitchen!" Armand yells back.

"How is that fair?" Daniel chimes in, offering Mojo a pancake on a tine. Not bothered by any of it. "We fucked in his."

"You hear that, Louis?" Lestat shouts, "They fucked in your kitchen. We're off the hook."

“I swear to all the Saints in Heaven, if any of you ever do this in my coffee-shop, you won't . . . " Pause. Longer Pause. Then-- _"It's in my hair!"_ The last uttered in what? Horror? Irritation? Doesn't matter. Lestat knows just what to do; how to take care of it.

“Don’t worry, darling.” If Lestat had a tail, it would wag, right this second. “I’ll help you get it out!” Then to Mojo: “You stay here,” leaving Armand and Daniel to chortle behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks be to @rebness! She answered my call when I couldn't figure out how to end the story, also thank you Cesare for the inspirational title!  
> I can't believe I didn't have to check ANY of the Archive Warnings. This is a first, ever, for me.


End file.
